Young People Flee Big Tech to Embrace Life and See the Sun

In the early morning subway, young people crowd behind glass walls, screens flashing KPI and code commit records, while colleagues whisper about overtime hours. Everyone is chasing a seemingly glamorous offer, yet few ask themselves what kind of life this high salary actually buys.

I used to be a backend engineer at an internet giant, clocking in at 8 a.m. sharp and not leaving the office until 2 a.m. The project iteration rhythm felt like an assembly line—bug fixes, requirement reviews, performance tuning—making me feel like a screw being repeatedly hammered, with genuine creativity stifled by process.

One afternoon, I leaned against the floor‑to‑ceiling window as sunlight slanted in, casting a long shadow across the keyboard. In that moment I suddenly realized I hadn’t felt a breeze on my face in ages, and I’d even forgotten what kind of books I liked. The seed of quitting sprouted quietly in that beam of light.

According to a report from a research agency, the average monthly overtime in the internet industry exceeds 80 hours, with nearly half of respondents saying long‑term high pressure leads to sleep deprivation, anxiety, and even depression. Behind the data lie countless all‑night debugging sessions and the chest‑tightening feeling upon waking each morning.

A product manager who once worked at a certain headline company wrote on social media: “Every day I’m proving I’m not good enough, yet I forget to ask myself what I truly want.” This self‑depleting cycle leaves many experiencing premature burnout by their mid‑twenties.

When companies tie ‘hard work’ to performance reviews, overtime becomes not just a habit but a badge of honor. Employees start measuring their self‑worth by hours logged, and in this endless loop, real life is quietly stripped away, leaving only hollow achievement and exhausted bodies.

On my first day leaving the office building, I wandered into a nearby old‑street market where stalls displayed fresh vegetables glistening with dew, and vendors greeted passersby warmly. I bought a bunch of greens, inhaled the earthy scent, and my heart inexplicably felt lighter.

I am no longer enslaved by the alarm clock; instead I live in rhythm with nature. In the mornings I read a long‑neglected novel on a park bench, and in the afternoons I ride a shared bike along the river, watching the shimmering water reflect the sky’s clouds. A simple walk, yet it restored my sense of control over time.

In the evenings I invite a few long‑lost friends over to cook together; the kitchen fills with aroma, laughter mingling with the clatter of spatulas. The gatherings, movies, and even idle moments that overtime had buried are now filled one by one, and life finally feels like more than just a stream of code output.

Reality isn’t always kind. In the first month after quitting, my bank balance began to dip, and rent, utilities, and daily expenses felt like invisible ropes tightening around me. I repeatedly checked my savings to stave off anxiety, fearing I might one day become unable to make ends meet.

Beyond financial pressure, the shift in identity brought its own ache. The badge of ‘big‑tech engineer’ that once brought me pride vanished, leaving me often speechless in social settings—who am I, really? No longer able to lean on a company name to validate my worth, this uncertainty kept me tossing and turning at night.

I began trying freelance gigs, niche tech blogs, even setting up a stall to sell handcrafted drinks. Though the income is unstable, it has let me rediscover the joy of doing things. Each completed independent project feels like a shot of confidence, reminding me that leaving big tech hasn’t erased my abilities—it’s just changed how I express them.